


Basorexia

by Desdimonda



Series: Broken Steps on the Broken Isles - Drabbles and vignettes about Maiev, Illidan and their relationship beneath the shadow of the Legion's invasion on Azeroth and beyond. [4]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Angst, Basorexia, Confession, F/M, One Shot, Sexual Tension, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 01:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10753440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desdimonda/pseuds/Desdimonda
Summary: This was from a prompt on tumblr with the following:Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.





	Basorexia

Khadgar slammed the bottom of Atiesh on the floor, sending a wave of arcane rippling over the wood, their feet, biting at their skin, in warning. 

“ _Please,_ ” he said, his plea falling, lost, to all that needed to hear. “We are here to work _together_ , not fall apart.”

Wings flaring, Illidan held his ground before the two Sentinels that had come to stand before Tyrande, their blades unsheathed, ready to strike.

Maiev was paces away at Illidan’s side, her teeth grinding as she watched that haughty face; that judgemental gaze wash over her, her Wardens, the Illidari and their Lord. Malfurion stood passively at her back, watching, as if he saw nothing.

“Aren’t you sick of hiding beneath your trees, shrouded by the past, Tyrande?” said Illidan, the bright white of her outline, the echo of her body making his chest feel tight. Making him remember. She had been the last thing he had seen when he died, his memory granting him a vision, a beautiful painted picture of why he did, what he did.

The picture was faded now. Blurred; pigment scratched away by time.

The High Priestess turned away, blinking slowly as a symphony of sharp gasps, of breathless words, rippled through the crowd after Illidan’s words.

“I am not afraid of the past. I have nothing to run from,” she said, turning back to face Illidan, the aura of Elune’s grace shifting around her, with her swathe of hair, moving as if air.

Illidan laughed. A rough, bark of a laugh that made the tattoos on his chest flare green. He made to speak, but Maiev did first.

“Have you no _shame_?” she hissed, throwing down her chakram onto the wooden floor, the blade cutting an inch deep. “You murdered my sisters in cold blood; you defied your people; your mate; your word - to free the man _you_ condemned.”

“He condemned himself,” she sad, her gaze unwavering.

Maiev tore off her helm and flung it to the ground by Tyrande’s feet. “I once looked up to you. I once called you a friend. A sister. And now I can’t even remember _why_.”

Tyrande stepped away from Maiev’s helm as it rolled towards her, turning to face the Warden. “Why are you even here? What have you done for our people?” Tyrande looked Maiev up and down, watching the rise and fall of her chest. “ _Nothing_ , but bring us misery, and _shame_.”

“ _Enough_ , Tyrande,” roared Illidan, spreading his wings violently. The Sentinels cowered back a step, and Khadgar moved away just in time to not get hit by the clawed tip of a wing. “Where were you, when we took the Shore? Where were you, when I returned, afraid, alone? Where were you, when the skies rained with fel; when our people bled on these shores? _Where were you_?”

“I have retaken Suramar! My home-”

Illidan stepped closer. Maiev reached out, her hand hovering by his arm. “Because it’s _your_ home. Because you cannot step away from the past; because all you can do is look back.”

He watched as she held a hand to her chest, fingers curling, her aura trembling, shifting, with each word he bared to her, and everyone with them.

“Maiev _was there_. Maiev stood with her sisters; with the Horde; with the Kirin Tor - _with me_ \- as we fought for our world,” said Illidan his voice hoarse, shaking, breaking.

Maiev’s hand faltered, the tips of her fingers sliding down his arm as he spoke. She felt, bare. Exposed. Vulnerable. And she wished she hadn’t thrown her helm. For she couldn’t look away, from him.

Her ears tilted, flat, as every word he spoke wove through the air, to her head, to her heart; a heart that paused, for a moment, for a breath.

“She has nothing left to lose,” said Tyrande, her retort withered, weak.

“She has my _respect_ ,” he said, feeling Maiev’s hand tighten around his wrist; feeling her fingers, shake.

Tyrande, said nothing.

Khadgar cleared his throat, Atiesh clicking on the wooden floor as he walked. “Lets - lets all take a breather. Walk it off; drink some wine; punch a demon-”

Maiev, heard nothing; she saw, nothing - but him. 

Her fingers slid along his arm, bound in thin strips of cloth, small spikes, scales, pushing through the binds, rough, beneath her touch. 

A step, two, and she was in-front, feeling the heat of his tattoos pulse, like the breath of a lover, desperate, against her skin.

Steps echoed around the room as people left, as they dispersed, their muffled words a harmony. But it was nothing. A distant hum, shrouded, by him.

Her lips parted, as she breathed, sharply, just as the tip of a finger traced his arm, his shoulder, along the curve of his neck, to the slide of his jaw.

He turned, a little, enough, her finger brushing against his lip.

“What else do I have?” she asked, tilting back her head, as the last step, faded, left the room.

Illidan leaned down, slowly, her finger falling against his lips as he held her chin with thumb and finger, the tips of his claws pressing against her skin.

He could see, so clearly, as if he were whole; as if he wasn’t _this_. The shape of her angular face, harsh, worn, weathered with time and war; the purse of her lips, full, flushed from the bite of her fangs; the nick of scars, like whispers from Elune, scattered across her face.

“Me.”


End file.
